Fruit Tree - An Apple Tree on St Kilda

It was one of those rare mornings where I didn’t need to be up early. A grandson had stayed with us recently, which meant early starts and walks to school in all weathers. Since he’s been home, I’ve been fighting some sort of flu virus which has given me a dreadful cough and some aches and pains. I’m not blaming him, of course not. I’ve got run down and not rested enough. Anyway, it was nice to stay in bed a bit longer, just dozing, listening to the wind whistling round the windows and imagining that I’m in my fantasy cottage in St Kilda, warm, cosy, everything I need, as a wild blizzard dominates the bleak surroundings. Somewhere in this blissful existence, I wanted a fruit tree. In reality, there are no trees of any sort on St Kilda. High winds and constant salt spray prevent tree growth and the peat, acidic soil is completely unsuitable. In my imagination, I have had sustainable soil shipped over to help maintain my vegetable plot. An apple tree would be lovely. Eventually, I had to get up from my gorgeous bed and live in the real world. My fruit tree blog had to be in there, somewhere.

Close to where I live, there was an abundance of damsons. The tree was over-hanging the garden wall on the property and the fruit spilled on to the pavement making a sticky, purple mess. One of my neighbours, with permission, collected some damsons and made jam. Much better than wasted fruit making a mess.

Nearby, there is a small, confused cherry tree. I say confused because it comes into bloom with fabulous blossom at various times of the year. Never any cherries, though.

At a young age, I learnt the hard way just how bad a tummy ache can be after eating crab apples picked from the tree. Home was always a pub, on a street in a town, so nowhere to play out except the carpark. That was fine for my bike or scooter, but no mates to play with. All changed when we moved to a pub in the village of Padfield near Glossop. I soon made friends from our school down the road and we were never in. We fished for tadpoles, got in trouble for playing in the local farmer’s silage pit until we were filthy and stinky and one day, decided to feast from an apple tree. Crab apples. They were bitter tasting, probably not ripe, and I imagine it was quantity that made me unwell. A lesson learnt.

My Haiku poem,

In my wildest dreams
I’m in comfort perfection,
St Kilda cottage.

Sweet, rosy apples,
So juicy and fresh each day,
Clustered on branches.

A rare, sunny day
And a cloudless sky in this
Archipelago.

Strong winds just bring snow
Icy, northern blasts make a
Harsh environment.

I wish I could grow
A fruit tree on St Kilda,
Weather protected.

PMW 2026

Thanks for reading, Pam x

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Desert Island Discs

Desert Island Discs, which is on Radio 4 these days, is another throw back to my childhood, like Mrs Dale’s Diary and Sing Something Simple when we listened to the huge, polished wood wireless in our living room. I expect it would have been broadcast on the Light Programme or the Home Service in the 1950s. 

Its first home was the BBC Forces Programme from 1942-1944. The unchanged opening theme is “By the Sleepy Lagoon” by Eric Coates, which makes me imagine bright, azure sky, warm beaches, hammocks fastened to palm trees and gentle, clear water stroking the sand. It might be appealing to some, but this is not my Desert Island.

My chosen island, St Kilda, fails to meet the criteria of ‘desert island’, so I’m breaking the rules here. Oops. I haven’t had the privilege of visiting and probably never will. I’ve been to the western edges of the Outer Hebrides from where St Kilda is still too far away and difficult to reach. 

St. Kilda, Outer Hebrides

I’ll keep her in my dreams and pretend that I’m cosy in a little cottage with a peat fire, or whatever the departed inhabitants used. A blizzard has been blasting the islands for days, even weeks, and there is no visible definition of sky to land. I love the sound of snow hitting the windows and occasional howling wind. It is calm and restful. I don’t miss the irritating noise of traffic, especially sirens at all times of day or night.

My music, and eight pieces isn’t enough, would be: ‘Honky Tonk Women’ by the Rolling Stones. I love the beginning where the rhythm is joined by other instruments one at a time until they are all playing together. ‘Music’ by John Miles because I think it’s amazing. ‘Baker Street’ by Gerry Rafferty for his remarkable voice and the saxophone. ‘In My Life’ by the Beatles, the words speak for themselves. Anything from ‘The Peer Gynt Suite’ by Edvard Greig – there’s a surprise. I know I’m not allowed to take it all. While I’ve gone classical, ‘Troika’ by Sergei Prokofiev, a favourite piece, not just at Christmas. ‘Holding Back the Years’ by Simply Red, my first introduction to Mick Hucknall and it always makes me stop to listen properly. ‘Isn’t Life Strange?’ from the Moody Blues, written by John Lodge and needs no explanation.

I’m stuck on choosing luxury items and this is where I’m probably breaking rules again. Food, water, strong tea, my laptop for access to everything else? Such things work perfectly well in fantasy land. I would love this poem in a frame on my wall:

Sonnet XLIII, from the Portuguese

How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
I love thee to the depth and breadth and height
My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight
For the ends of Being and ideal Grace.
I love thee to the level of every day’s
Most quiet need, by sun and candlelight.
I love thee freely, as men strive for Right;
I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise.
I love thee with the passion put to use
In my old griefs, and with my childhood’s faith.
I love thee with a love I seemed to lose
With my lost saints, - I love thee with the breath,
Smiles, tears, of all my life! – and, if God choose,
I shall but love thee better after death.

                                     Elizabeth Barrett Browning 1806-1861

Thanks for reading, Pam x

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Blizzard: Three Perspectives

There are three places that I know well that have documented significant snowfall: The Chicagoland area where I spent most of my childhood, Corinth in upstate New York where I spent many summer vacations and Lytham St Annes, a place I have called home for over twenty years.

1) Chicago, Illinois, USA
The great Chicago Blizzard of ’67 was a record breaking extraordinary event. Sadly, I missed it as at that time I was living 183 miles south of the city. However I’ve heard many stories and I’ve seen pictures.

House in Chicago western suburb: Image credit - Wirtz collection

On 24th of January, the temperature around Lake Michigan and the surrounding area had reached an unseasonably warm 65 degrees Fahrenheit (18 degrees Celsius). The temperature then plummeted. Two days later, 53 mile per hour winds and snow blew in with a vengeance raising havoc for 29 hours. It became the worst snowstorm ever recorded in the city dumping a whopping 23 inches (58 cm) of the white stuff and creating drifts of four to six feet (1.2 to 1.8 meters).

Here are some accounts:

          My dad had a work project in South Bend [Indiana,] so we lived there for the
          winter in 1967. I remember walking the sidewalk with him and it was
          truly a tunnel of snow, reaching over our head, and my mom was angry when
          she found out because it was so dangerous, but my dad thought it was cool
          and fun – he was only 26 and I a mere five year old.  Debra Fulscher

          My mom says she wouldn’t let me go play by myself [in the snow].
          I guess she thought I’d get lost or buried in it.  Leslie Barr

          I remember my dad was working at the Outer Drive East and was stuck in
          the city for a couple of days. My mom pulled my brother and I on the toboggan
          sled to Riverside foods for groceries and we carried two bags of groceries on
          our laps and she pulled us back home.  Nadine Ceragioli-Espisito

Fast forward a few years to the Chicago Blizzard of 14th January 1979 (fourth largest snowfall in the history of the city) that dumped 20 inches of snow. The Chicago Tribune’s headline on that day read

          BLIZZARD…Big snow clogs roads, shuts O’Hare

What I remember about this was being so excited to have two days off school. I shuffled across the picturesque suburban town of Riverside on cross country skis to visit friends and play in the snow.

2) Corinth, New York, USA
Every summer throughout my childhood I would be piled into the family station wagon and driven 12 hours to visit my dad’s family in upstate New York. My relatives would often tell tales of Corinth’s freezing and very snowy winters that are much snowier than Chicago. Evidence of significant snowfalls is the c 1900 photo of the Ezra Sayre Drug Store and the 1888 snowstorm as documented in a newspaper retrospectively. 46 inches (116.84 cm) of snow was recorded during the 1888 event, twice the amount as Chicago’s record holding 1967 storm.

Ezra Sayre Drugstore, Corinth, New York: Image credit - Corinth Museum

Saratogian Newspaper Clipping: Image credit - Corinth Museum

3) Lytham St Annes, UK
Lytham St Annes rarely gets snow, therefore any amount of it is quite a thing and something to be reckoned with. I discovered in my research there have been heavy snowfalls documented in the last two hundred years, however nothing comparable to Chicago or upstate New York. One example is the storm from 1907. Here’s an excerpt from an article that appeared in the local newspaper:

          The keen, south-easterly wind blew the light flakes into deep drifts,
          and passengers along the streets sank to their knees in some places…
          In the surrounding country the snow drifted to greater depths and many
          of the roads on the Moss were impassable…[also impassable] were
          Squire’s Gate lane, Division land, and Lytham Road.

Now let’s look at another much more recent event. On the 23rd January 2021 the Lytham St Annes News headline read:

            48 hours of snow chaos to hit Lytham St Annes 

       as Arctic  blizzard unleashes its load on the resort

The article below the headline predicted that over the course of 24 hours -10°C (14°F) and up to 10cm (3.9 inches) would be expected. I couldn’t find information stating how much snow actually did fall, however a picture paints a thousand words. This photograph was taken in the Arctic Blizzard’s aftermath.

Snow in the garden: Image credit - Boz Phillips

Not sure what else to say on the blizzard subject except keep dreaming of the fluffy white stuff and a rather Seussian-like ditty…

A blizzard is chaos no matter how small,
three inches, four inches, twenty or more
inches to feet into snow drifts and all,
a blizzard is chaos no matter how small.

Have a happy festive season and joyous New Year!

Thank you for reading. Kate J

Sources:
Amounderness.co.uk, 2021. 1907 Snow Storm at Lytham & St Annes. https://amounderness.co.uk/1907_snow_lytham_&_st.annes.html Accessed 12 December, 2023.

National Weather Service, 2023. January 26-27, 1967: Chicago’s Largest Snowfall on Record. https://www.weather.gov/lot/67blizzard Accessed 12 December.

Private Eye, 2021. 48 hours of snow chaos to hit Lytham St Annes as Arctic blizzard releases its load on the resort. https://www.lythamstannes.news/news/48-hours-of-snow-chaos-to-hit-lytham-st-annes-as-arctic-blizzard-unleashes-its-load-on-the-resort/ Accessed 6 December 2023.

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Blizzard - The Postie Stone, Moffat

The Postie Stone (i)

How exciting it would be to become snowed in when we have our pre-Christmas break at our favourite lodge in Dumfries & Galloway. I think of this every November into December, when we spend a couple of weeks there, wrapped around my birthday, to do some Christmas shopping in the fabulous, privately owned individual shops. In anticipation of having to stay until March, unless a tractor from the farm comes along to rescue us, I take a supply of ‘emergency’ tinned food and packets, and stock up aplenty on arrival.  This time, it nearly happened. It was our last morning, the day we were leaving. Snow was about eight inches deep and still falling thick and fast. A huge mound shaped over and around our car so it looked like an igloo. We never have snow at home, not like this proper ‘build a snowman’ stuff and we stood in awe gazing at the most amazing landscape through the window.

One day, we went to Moffat, an enchanting market town north of Dumfries. We’ve been before and enjoy a stroll along the high street, seeing what the shops have and this visit was pretty with festive lights and shop windows trimmed for Christmas. It was a cold but calm, sunny day and for me, a wander into the Old Graveyard was appealing. John Loudon McAdam, of tarmac fame is buried there, also are the graves of James McGeorge and John Goodfellow. They were enroute to Edinburgh from Dumfries with postal deliveries when they were caught in a blizzard and died. 

The Postie Stone (ii) Detail

Taken from Atlas Obscurer –
“A roadside memorial commemorates the lives of John Goodfellow, the coach driver, and James McGeorge, the coach guard of a mail coach.

The pair were on a mail coach traveling from Dumfries to Edinburgh in February 1831. They became caught in a fierce blizzard which forced them to abandon the coach and set off on foot through the snow to try and deliver the mail and make it to safety.

They took the mailbags and horses but eventually, the men were overcome by the elements and died of exposure near the head of Cross Burn. The horses continued on, eventually reaching a nearby farm which raised the alarm.

The stone was erected in their memory in 1931, a century after the event. The men were laid to rest in the churchyard in nearby Moffat.”

(A full account of this can be found online, titled The Coaching Disaster.)

Such a sad story and I thought of them again as I watched the falling snow on our journey home. All was well until we were driving into Cumbria and coming over Shap. Late afternoon and it was going dark, the snow clouds were low and visibility was poor. The blizzard soon reduced the motorway from three to two lanes and traffic slowed accordingly. We were grateful to arrive home unscathed because soon after we heard about abandoned cars in Cumbria and jack-knifed wagons on the M6.

Being snowed in at the lodge would have been cosy, though, in my fantasy world.

 During my childhood, age 8 to 9, we lived in Padfield, near Glossop in what became one of dad’s favourite pubs and B&B to manage. We got snowed in, which still happens up there. The village was cut off for days and I remember my mum helping the neighbours out with food where she could.  School stayed open, which meant the fun of snowball fights on the walk down and up again. All the teachers – there was only four of them – lived near the school so it wasn’t likely to be closed and we were allowed to play out in the snow. Times have changed. If the travel news should mention The Snake Pass or Woodhead Road being closed due to snow I think ‘That’s Padfield cut off, then’. Fond memories.

Leaving the Lodge

Emily Bronte passed away on this day in 1848. This is one of her poems. It reminds me of Wuthering Heights as I imagine a blizzard over the moors.

The night is darkening round me,
The wild winds coldly blow;
But a tyrant spell has bound me
And I cannot, cannot go.

The giant trees are bending
Their bare boughs weighed with snow,
The storm is fast descending
And yet I cannot go.

Clouds beyond clouds above me,
Wastes beyond wastes below;
But nothing drear can move me;
I will not, cannot go.

             Emily Jane Bronte 1818 – 1848

Thanks for reading. A Merry Christmas to all, Pam x                                        

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Blizzard

As we are in the month of December and Christmas is nearly upon us the question of whether we will get a white Christmas begins to loom to the backdrop of Bing Crosby singing White Christmas. This is true for the bookies who stand to make a small fortune from the unfortunates who place a bet every year on whether there will be one.

The definition of a White Christmas according to the Met Office, is for one snowflake to be observed falling anywhere in the UK in the 24 hours of 25th December. For the bet to be claimed snowflakes must be observed falling on the Met Office in London, Buckingham Palace, Aldergrove Airport, Belfast, Aberdeen football club stadium, Edinburgh Castle, the Millennium Stadium, Cardiff and, strangely, Coronation Street, Manchester. However, one bet that never seems to be placed is whether there is going to be a blizzard this winter.

White Christmas sites in Aberdeen and Coronation Street Manchester

The word blizzard seems to have originated in the United States and according to Richard Wild the word blizzard can mean “blow, blast, blister and bluster”. It could also mean a flurry of knockout punches or a volley of musket shots in the American Civil War era. However, the strongest evidence suggests the origins of the word blizzard derives from the Germans who settled the mid-West states such as Virginia and Iowa in and around the 1850s. These German settlers witnessed the violent winter storms brought by north-easterly winds followed by winter depressions and low pressure. They called these violent storms “Der sturm komm blitzartig” meaning “the storm comes lightning like”. Therefore, the move from “blitzartig” to “blizzard” is not too difficult.

The first use of blizzard referring to blinding snowstorm seems to have occurred in the Dakota Republican to describe weather events during the winter of 1867-1868. In some ways America seems to be assaulted by blizzards from the north, tornados from the south, hurricanes from the east and lunatic Democrats destroying the west, but I digress. From here on the use of the word blizzard to describe violent or severe snowstorms just snowballed in America with many more publications using the word. From its American roots the word blizzard was first used in England to describe the snowstorm of March 1891. According to Wild, the first official use of the word blizzard in the United Kingdom occurred in the snow storm of 27th February-1st March 1937. Since then, the word blizzard is used for events such as heavy snow falls, as the word sounds dramatic in news media reports.

image of the Iran blizzard of 1972

Blizzards can be destructive events and throughout history they have wreaked havoc in countries all over the world. The 1972 Iran Blizzardd (photograph above) was the worst in recorded history and caused the deaths of 4,000 people with 26 feet/7.9 metres snow totally covering 200 villages. Beginning on February 3rd, the snow fell for several days and an area around the size of England was entirely buried under snow. Many people went inside their homes to escape the snowfall but they became trapped and froze to death in them.

In America, the Great Blizzard of 1993 (photograph below) began on March 12th 1993, lasted for three days and was noted for its intensity, extent and widely felt impact. At one point the storm stretched from Canada down to Central America but the United States and Cuba bore the brunt of the Great Blizzard. As the storm moved it produced hurricane force winds, storm surges and tornados. Some 40% of the American population bore the brunt of the Great Blizzard which killed around 270 people.

image of the Great Blizzard of 1933 in America

One of the coldest winters in British history occurred in the winter of 1962-1963 known as the Big Freeze. On December 12th -13th snow began to fall across the county and a blizzard blasted south-west England and Wales. The snow kept falling until February 1963 when a 36-hour blizzard in a force 8 gale caused huge snowdrifts across the country. Some of these snowdrifts were twenty feet deep. March 6th 1963, was the first morning for months that there was no frost and a gradual thaw set in to ease the country out of its winter deep freeze.

image of the aftermath of the Big Freeze of 1962-63 in the UK

Blizzards are a weather phenomenon which can leave huge destruction and death in their trail. The aftermath of a blizzard can be quiet, peaceful even and bring a winter beauty all of its own. However, it is unlikely there will be blizzards this Christmas although there may be a smattering of snow in the hills or mountains. Whether there will be a white Christmas is open to debate. Maybe the nearest we will get to a blizzard this winter is Sara Blizzard, the BBC Weather Presenter on North West Tonight informing us of yet another unwhite Christmas. Who knows, Sara might even sing White Christmas if one occurs this year. Or indeed, if one does not occur this year.

Sara Blizzard presenting the weather

Blizzard

It comes from the North and the East,
a wild, wild raging beast, inflicting its
terrifying power, making everyone cower,
and pray for an end to its unrelenting
whiteout, wipe-out fury.
But the storm’s hostility engenders
a feeling of futility, so people rush to
find a shelter, a fortress to hide
behind, to flee the ice, the snow,
the wind fired hell, scream,
pray, yell, and fall under the
storm’s malevolent spell.
Then it leaves everything peaceful, calm,
still, survivors view the devastation in
a mute stupification, the shovels,
tractors, diggers move the snow, the
ice, the drifts and people take it in
shifts to wonder what the hell happened.

Thanks for reading.

Happy Christmas everyone and all the best for New Year. Dermot

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Hot and Cold

How lovely it was to spent time in a warm and cosy lodge gazing out on to a wintry landscape. It was very cold outside, definitely hat, scarf and gloves needed even for a quick nip out to feed the birds. Coming back inside to a welcome hot drink was a perfect reward and I would sip it while watching for the birds to notice the replenished feeders. Being prepared for any amount of snow, ice or blizzard, we were stocked up with extra food and provisions, but coastal Dumfries and Galloway has its own micro climate and despite the minus degrees temperature most of the time, we had sunshine and blue skies every day and the local roads remained passable. We saw a fine layer of snow at Galloway Forest Park on one of our adventures. Of course, all good things come to an end and after a couple of restful weeks we were driving home for Christmas – go on, sing – through patches of freezing fog on the M6 with the snowy Cumbrian hills looking majestic in the clear bits. Family and festivities beckoned in Blackpool.

I was nine years old when my family’s second move to Blackpool became our permanent one. Dad’s wished for ‘pub on the prom’ was our home. My sister was still in a cot and we shared a big bedroom right at the front with an amazing sea view. The place was just a pub with three separate bars, but was originally a residential hotel. There were many nooks and crannies to explore but what fascinated me was the wash-basin in our room. It was fixed to the wall in the corner with a frame fastened to the floor on a square of lino. The frame provided a small towel rail. The taps were labelled ‘Hot’ and ‘Cold’. Mum and Dad’s room had one and so did another bedroom that was right next to the bathroom. At the time I thought that was hilarious. Our kitchen was miles away on another corridor. This wing had more bedrooms with wash-basins, which accommodated grandparents on their visits. The two floors above were out of bounds to me, but I had dared to have a peep and decided that whatever was up the curtained stairs was far too scary. Fast forward a few years to teenage and some of us did go off exploring. Very creepy.

A recent adventure was ‘Two Go Off in a Caravan’. This is our retirement asset to enable us to take off where we want and when we want to, within reason, while we can. We got it at the beginning of November, intending to have a couple of short trips in it before packing it away for the winter and before we disappeared to Scotland. In the end we only managed one weekend away, but it was good fun and a learning curve. On the second day, we, well ok, not me, figured out ‘hot and cold running water’ which was bliss to wash up without boiling the kettle. I expect we will have forgotten what we’ve learnt by the time spring comes, though we’ve made notes.

I found this from a Scottish poet, Alan Jackson,

The Three

In the depth of winter
In the dark of night
There was only one house,
Only one light.

I walked down the path,
I knocked on the door.
I do not think
I’d been there before.

Music and light,
Three smiling faces.
I was by the fire
In seven paces.

Oh what a blossom
Oh what a feel!
They showed me a seat;
I joined in their meal.

After we’d eaten
We cleared out the things;
‘One of us plays,
One of us sings,

One of us dances.’
‘Then I will too,’
I laughed and looked,
‘I’ll dance with you.’

The stars in the window,
The birds in the trees,
The fire in the chimney,
We were all these.

The sun in the morning,
The moon on its way,
Roses and silver,
Nothing was gray.

A rich deep blue,
A scarlet bloom,
Like living liquids,
Filled the room.

Then we sat down
And talked till dawn.
Our eyes were shining.
We could not yawn.

‘Where were you going?’
‘Coming to you.’
‘But you didn’t know.’
‘Of course, I knew.

I know what is
And what is not.
I know the cold,
I know the hot

I know what quickens,
I know what kills;
I know what drains;
I know what fills

When I couldn’t see
I followed my nose.
When I couldn’t hear
I followed my toes.’

‘Then many a bump
And many a smack
I expect you got
On such a track.’

‘I certainly did.
I’m covered in bruises.’
‘You’re not, you know.
Who wins, loses.

You are human
And we’re pleased
That you found us,
Though we teased,

But you must go
You cannot stay;
Soon it will be
Another day.

And you are called
Back to your place:
Great is the work
Of the human race.

Now, don’t be sad.
You won’t forget.
And we are there
In dry and wet;

In hot and cold,
Dull and shine,
In wither and bloom’
You’ll see our sign.

Whenever you look
With light in your eyes
You’ll almost see,
And hear our cries.’

The house was fading,
The fire was gone;
It was the earth
I was standing on.

‘Goodbye goodbye,
True hearts can’t fail!
Goodbye, goodbye,
Green is the trail!’

It was very cold
And rosy blue
I heard the cock
A doodle do.

I saw some smoke
And birds in trees
I heard their laughter
In the breeze.

I wasn’t sad
For I understood
My friends were alive
In water and wood.

A wonderful fire
Flamed through my heart.
I’d walking to do;
I made a start.

Alan Jackson, b 1938

Thanks for reading, Pam x

 

 

 

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A Coventry Snow Storm

I haven't written a poem since I quit smoking 10 days ago. I have lost the ability to concentrate. I have felt restless rather than inspired. However, I decided to challenge myself to write a poem for this week's post. I decided it was time to force my mind to focus. I decided to prove to myself that I can write - and that I can write without the aid of cigarettes... It was a challenge, hence the lateness of this post.

Coventry Blizzard, 1990

During the night it fell at steady rate. Large flakes racing down

through street light shine, through the searching full-beam lights

of a lone motorist travelling home on white tarmac roads;

his tyres pressing a snow leopard print along the length of the street,

creating two shaky lines of imperfection

which nature quickly filled and smoothed.

By morning, cars had been transformed into cotton wool hills,

phone lines draped down wooden poles and slithered across the ground.

Communication severed; a city left to wait and thaw in silence.

We missed school; built a snowman in the front garden,

gave him two stone eyes and twiggy arms. Finger-carved a smile on his face, 

placed one of dad’s silk ties around his neck.

For the rest of the day I sat in the bay window, watching. Thinking

I could bring him to life with nothing more than hope

and the power of my own mind.

At lunchtime I ate jam sandwiches, drank warm blackcurrant squash.

Kept my gaze fixed on the snowman’s stone stare,

waiting to see a blink, anything to prove him real.

But I saw nothing, nothing except two little girls in t-shirts and jeans.

Like a modern Dickensian scene they struggled

with a pushchair through the snow;

a sack of potatoes where a baby would normally sit.

The children’s lips were the colour of winter’s first frost, their skin

ghostly like an early morning December mist,

and as I sat in the window, the snowman slowly shrunk.

Thinking. Hoping. Wishing for something else. 

Thank you for reading,
Lar

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